My Graceless Heart
by BlackImp
Summary: "I don't care. I ran away from the Dark Lord, too, I suppose. I didn't particularly enjoy any of it. It was cruel. It was bloodthirsty. It was a bunch of power-hungry children trying to kill each other off. They were… tiring." Minette runs away from a life that she's not sure she wants anymore. Rated T for torture. Future BZ/OC, background DM/PP. Currently on Hiatus.


Er... Hello. I got bored with the other story, after realising that it had no sub-plot and was horribly boring... So, yes. I ended up writing this thing, and it would have all been in one chunk, but I got bored. Again. I might post the second half if people bug me enough for it, or if I bother to add on the last pieces.

Read and review! Tell me how you like it! Seriously, it only takes a minute, and it puts me on the equivelent of a sugar high. And then I get inspired to write, and you get more super-awesome stories! And I give you all virtual brownies. Not cookies, though, because brownies are awesomer.

I own a lot of books, a computer, and around a dozen stuffed animals, but not Harry Potter. I do own Minette, though!

* * *

_Shake it out, shake it out,_

_Shake it out shake it out,_

_Ooh-woah!_

_Shake it out, shake it out,_

_Shake it out shake it out,_

_Ooh-woah!_

_And it's hard to dance, with a devil on your back._

_So shake him off! Oh-woah!_

_Cause I am done with my graceless heart._

_So tonight I'm gonna cut it out,_

_And then restart._

_Cause I like to keep my issues strong,_

_And It's always darkest before the dawn!_

A single flame can start a wildfire. A death, the outcome of a war. And a life can change even more. A choice can change a thousand men, and a fool can kill them all. A kindness could make the cruel repent, but a cruelty would crush a hope.

And one word can start a revolution.

…

White skin, blonde hair, blue eyes, and pink cheeks. The perfect little china doll, for her mother to play dress up with. And whatever wasn't _perfect_ could be fixed easily with either magic, makeup, or a tightly laced corset. All were used often, and the necessity was criticized before. Because, after all, mother was perfect. And why couldn't daughter take after mother as much? _Mother_ never had _acne_. Not even as a teenager. Mother was _perfect_. Why could _daughter_ never be perfect? Why was there _always. Something. Wrong. _

…

Minette had seen more than this. She had heard the tortured screams, she had heard their every pleadings. Her father had told her the best torture methods, and she had listened emotionlessly.

That was what a proper young pureblood should do.

She should be perfect in society's eye. She should smile and flirt, and be able to talk business as well as she did piano. She should be beautiful, and clever, and a work of art to hang off of her future husband's arm. She should not disagree with either him or her father, that was certain. Males were above females, and purebloods were above anything else. That was what was taught.

So, when her father told her to torture the new prisoner, she should have said yes. She should have said '_yes, father. Of course, father. Whatever you wish, father._' She should have been the perfect little pureblood princess, and done it with glee.

_Should_, and _did_, are very different things, apparently.

…

Minette fingered her wand, and eyed the boy half-heartedly. He was lanky, tall, brown haired. Average. A thin face, starved, and hollow cheeks. But bright eyes. _Oh, such bright eyes_. Lit with hate, and malice. Thick with defiance, and laced with mocking. Even under the cruciatus curse, this boy would never lift his tongue. Determination set hard lines in his face, his mouth turning to a harsh sneer.

"Torture him, Minette. And make sure that there's lots of blood, plenty of gore. Finish it off with a good torture curse, maybe. You're a bit young to be trying the cruciatus, go for something a little weaker."

She was used to this kind of talk. She had tortured before. She had grown numb to their writhing, and whining. It scared her, a bit, when she had realized that. But this was the pureblood way of life. This was good. This was _perfection_.

This was rather horrible, once thought about.

She had eyed the boy, and eyed her father, and thought about everything. Her father was turning to leave, happy that his little girl would torture plenty of begging out of the prisoner.

"_No."_

…

That decision was probably the stupidest thing she had ever done. It was rash. It was brave. It was courageous, and shocking, even to herself. It was horribly _Griffindorish_.

But she didn't _want_ to torture him. For those first few seconds, she simply chalked it up to physical attractiveness and the fact that he was very shirtless. Then, she realized that she really didn't want him that way. Something struck her full force in the back of the head that had been sneaking up for quite a while, while she forcibly ignored it. She didn't particularly _want_ to torture _anybody. _She wanted to get him out, and she wanted him out safely. And this was definitely something new, for Minette. Or very, very old.

…

"_Hush, bebe. Try to sleep."_

"_They're screaming though, nana. I don't like their screaming. It's too loud."_

_Nana rose from her rocking chair, and came to sit on her bed._

"_I know, bebe. I know the sounds are horrible. I know the shrieks are loud. Will you sleep for me, though?"_

_Minette sat up in her bed, readjusting the pillow behind her. "Only if you sing a song, nana. I will try to sleep, if you sing me a song."_

_Nana had chuckled, and patted back the wisps of her grey hair. "Oh, you're a tricky one, indeed. No bribery will be used on me, though." Nana had kissed her forehead, and her hunched form shuffled towards the door._

"_Nana…" Her voice had sounded small and weak, even to her own ears. "Nana, I don't like their screams. They sound in pain, nana. Do they hurt, terribly? Nana, do you think they suffer?" She had asked the questions slowly, softly. "Nana, I can't sleep. Not while they scream so terribly."_

_Nana had looked at Minette for several seconds, but bundled her up in her lap. She had settled down in the rocking chair, and moved them slowly._

"_A vine-wand, child. Vine wood, and dragon heartstring." She had eyed her, as though trying to figure out a puzzle. "And barely bendy. Only barely. But plenty long, for plenty heart." Nana laughed, a deep happy sound. "Plenty length, for plenty heart. Barely bendy, for the bending to others' will that you do. Because you do not move. Dragon heartstring, for the darkness that lures you in. Though it is fiery, the flames will burn. Vine wood, because there are things buried in your heart that not even your father knows. He sees a child, but you are wiser than he in many ways. He is cruel. But you are kind. And even when you think yourself the same as him, you will surprise yourself. Because you have so much more depth than he does. He is vain, and malicious. He is bloodthirsty, and power-hungry. But you are so much more than that."_

_Nana had held her that night, and told her tales of the brave and the fearless. She had sung the songs of the prisoners as a lullaby. She had taught her three verses. Nana had disappeared the next morning, and was replaced by a new nana. Minette remembered that night, though. She still remembered the tales, knew the song by heart._

_And she never called the new woman nana._

_She had bothered to research wand-lore, when she was older. She found the attributes for vine, and dragon-heartstring, what wand strength meant. She had doubted the predictions, but later they came true. Vine wood, dragon heartstring. Fourteen and a half inches, hardly bendy at all. It only served to implant the night deeper into her memories._

_Killing someone off doesn't shoo away the thoughts._

…

_A little boy,_

_Is dead today._

_Two more girls,_

_And a young lady._

_Thirteen others,_

_All buried in a grave._

_And I am the one,_

_They kept to flay._

_Oh how I wish though,_

_I was with my true love._

_I wish for myself,_

_Side by side in a grave._

…

Minette's father had given her a good few slaps for her back-talk. A few bruises, too. But he had thought she simply didn't want to torture that day—she had always been a stubborn girl. A bit irrational. Opinionated.

He had left her in her room that night with a scolding and another punishment to be carried out the next day. She had left the room, with a note on the bed. And a shrunken trunk in her pocket, of course.

She had gone down to the dungeons, then. She had spoken to the boy. He was much more beaten up than before. And she had taken him with her. They had left together. Both running off, though each in their own directions. He had gone to his headquarters, wherever that was. She had picked a direction, and followed it.

The path she had chosen was good.

…

She had run into Draco Malfoy in Diagon Alley, a month after her disappearance. He had been shopping with his father, probably for new robes, and seen her in a back-street. She had run, he pursued. They had gone dodging through the back ways, the secret spaces and hidden tunnels. The feet between one store and the next.

He had caught her, though it had taken awhile. He was faster, more heavily muscled. She knew the shortcuts. He ended up having to sit on her, though, to keep her down. Both had sat there, panting, for who knows how many minutes. Then the inevitable questions came.

"Why did you run?"

She pursed her lips, and eyed him scornfully. It only took a moment for him to repeat the question, and remind her he was sitting on top of her back.

"Why would I not?"

He had seemed taken aback by her answer, when she craned her neck around. She smirked at his confusion, until he rolled his eyes.

"That's not an answer."

"It is, technically."

He moved himself to sit further up her back, and squash more of the air from her lungs. She groaned, and wheezed out a half-hearted, "Fine."

"You either run away from something, or you run towards something."

"And?" He leaned an arm on the back of her neck.

"And I did some of both. I ran away from my father. I ran towards something new."

He had seemed utterly bewildered by her answer. It was almost comical, besides the fact that he was still on her ribcage. She pushed up against him, and he shuffled back slightly, allowing her to breathe normally.

"But you're a pureblood. You're a _Black_. Distantly related, but you still are. You left money, and power, and the_ Dark Lord!_"

She had scoffed at that. Nearly laughed.

"I don't _care_. I ran away from the Dark Lord, too, I suppose. I didn't particularly enjoy any of it. It was cruel. It was bloodthirsty. It was a bunch of power-hungry children trying to kill each other off. They were… _tiring_."

Draco had snorted at her voiced thoughts, but he got off of her anyways.

"They were fools, too. They were wrong about too much, and refused to look at anything besides their own superiority. They were wrong." She tilted her head, and studied him through those narrow black eyes. "Besides, I'm no fighter. I wouldn't have lasted long. And _you_ won't reach your eighteenth birthday, at this rate."

Draco made no comment on her words, simply turned around to leave.

"I _am_ going to tell your father I saw you."

…

He never told. At the least, no one came looking for her. Not for a while.

It was a little over two weeks before the next time she saw him, in the Hog's Head. She was fairly sure he was seeking her out purposefully, and she ended up being right. He brought a girl with him, Pansy Parkinson. They had trunks shrunken in their pockets, and were attempting to not be seen. They weren't terribly good at it.

"Well, hello there, Draco. Mind telling me why you're bothering me again?"

He snorted, but sat down at her table, Pansy following closely. Minette raised an eyebrow, picking at the oddly wriggling noodles in her dish, and winced as one flopped off the plate.

They sat in companionable silence, made slightly awkward by Pansy's fidgeting. Minette debated flicking the pasta at her, but decided that might not go over well.

"I didn't tell him."

Minette swallowed the food in her mouth, gagging slightly as it wriggled. "I figured that much out."

He seemed to be looking for something to say, but she wasn't helping at all. She watched his interactions with Pansy, and noted with interest that they were holding hands. She was comforting him, stroking a finger along the top of his long fingers.

"Is that all you came by to say?"

He glared at her, and she shrugged half-interestedly.

"I came by to tell you that I... I'm doing the same thing you did. I'm going to leave."

Minette scoffed, and actually flung a piece of pasta at him. "Is that honestly all? You didn't have to come tell me. I'm doing my very best to stay hidden, and you're compromising that."

Pansy butted into their conversation, then. "_That's_ what we're here about. We have an idea."

Minette raised an eyebrow, and set down her fork. "Well, this sounds interesting. What, may I ask, is your _fantastic_ idea?"

Draco stuttered a bit, and Pansy re-wrapped his hand in both of hers.

"You need protection, right? We _will_, so… Look, I know someone who can help us out."

"Who?"

He sucked in a breath, and squeezed Pansy's hand. She squeezed it back, and it was so disgustingly _cute_ that Minette could barf.

"Professor Dumbledore. Look, I _know_ he's a bit of a loon-"

"That's actually smart."

"What?" He did the confused-ferret face again. Minette rolled her eyes heavily, but repeated herself.

"That. Is. Actually. Smart. As in, you managed to use your head, for once. Professor Dumbledore is powerful, and the leader of the light. Only downside is, he'll try to recruit us. That's nearly as much danger as I'm in now."

"Nearly."

She hummed, and leaned her chin on a fist. "True. It _would_ be safer, if only slightly. Maybe we could make some kind of deal. Something with a little less trouble… Contact me in a few days, and we can floo to Hogwarts."

He nodded slowly, thinking over her plan. "That should work. Stay around, it'll be within the week. And we'll probably have to use the fireplace at the Leaky Cauldron."

She stuck her hand out at him, and he nearly hesitated before meeting it in a handshake.

"See you in a few days."

…

It was raining. Hard. Storming would have been closer to the truth. The clouds were charcoal, and the sun was long gone. No one was outside, let alone wandering around Diagon Alley, so most of the shops had closed. The one exception, however, was the Leaky Cauldron. Though, that was mostly because there were people renting rooms there, and they wanted food.

Minette was there, too, though not for food. She had received a specific note from Draco to meet him at seven in the table by the corner. So she was sitting in said table-by-the-corner with a butterbeer. And he was late.

By the time he and pansy finally came bursting through the fireplace, she was on her second. He crossed the floor quickly, and landed a hand on her table.

"Hurry up, Minette, we're late."

She took another sip, and stared at him blankly. "And? That didn't seem to mean much before, seeing as it's…" She eyed the clock against the opposite wall. "Seven forty-five. What were you _doing_, anyways? Fixing your hair?" Her hand gestures paused to take another drink from the mug.

Pansy snickered, and flounced up to them, to sit in the chair across from Minette. "No, he was gathering up his courage to tell _Mummy_ and_ Daddy_ that he wouldn't fight in their war. I was waiting, locked in my bedroom, _for an hour_. I had already told my parents. They had already asked me to go to the next Deatheater meeting. I said no."

Draco rolled his eyes, and took the next chair over. "I was _packing_, not _gathering my courage_."

Minette rolled her eyes. "So, what _did_ you tell them? _I'm going to the store_?"

He sent a sharp glare in her direction, and leaned forward. "I told them I wouldn't be risking my neck for their business."

She snickered, and drained the last of her drink. "Alrighty, then. Fine. Let's see if Dumbledore will talk to us."

…

He did end up talking to them, and they did manage to strike a deal. It turned out that a simple exchange of information would suffice. Maps, plans, whispers, rumors. Anything. It all helped. Well, it all helped Minette get a safe apartment. Sharing it with two other people was beside the point.

When the fireplace spouted green, and she stumbled out into the leaky cauldron, she was not expecting to see her father waiting. Nor was she expecting for him to grab her arm and try to walk her out like a child.

"Let go!"

She wrenched away, and lashed out quickly, before pulling back. She nearly tripped on her feet in her haste, but a pair of muscular arms held her elbows firmly. In her adrenaline, Minette tore off in another direction, and quite purposefully drove an elbow into his gut on the way. Her breathing slowed as she took in the sight of a dark boy doubled over, and her father on the other corner of the newly formed triangle.

Draco snickered behind her. "Nice composure, Minnie. You just elbowed the guy you ran into."

She sniffed, and stuck her nose into the air. "It was reflex. He surprised me, I reacted." A slight blush rose on her white cheeks as he kept snickering, and her eyebrow twitched.

"Never mind, you just elbowed Blaise Zabini." Pansy murmured, and burst into a fit of giggles as Minette swallowed heavily.

The blush spread over her nose, her eyes widened, and she took a quick glance to the side at the boy slowly straightening back up. He was rather tall, though not exceptionally, with golden-brown skin and darker hair. His eyes were long, and his face was too. Each feature was thin and striking, with high cheekbones and arched eyebrows. His every movement was graceful, even when he was gasping for air and leaning heavily on a table.

"Minette!"

She flinched away from his loud voice, and backed up into Draco, who rested a reassuring hand on her shoulder.

"You are coming back to the manor with me, Minette. _And we shall discuss your punishment there_-"

"No."

He mimicked a goldfish quite nicely, though it was washed over by anger so soon. "Minette, you will go to the manor this instant, _or I will drag you kicking and screaming_-"

"No, I won't. I'm seventeen, and may do as I like. That includes moving out."

He took several deep breaths, and held out a hand. "Come, Minette. You will either go willingly, or I will petrify you. You are a Dubois, and _you will act like it_."

Blaise stepped forward, breathing normally now. "Lord Dubois-"

An older woman, though undeniably beautiful, laid a graceful hand on his arm. She hissed something to him, and he backed down, obviously with much respect.

"Lord Dubois, I do wonder why you are threatening young women in taverns?"

His smirk was predatory as he stepped forward to kiss the woman's hand. "Madam Zabini, a pleasure to see you. I was simply stopping to speak to young Draco, and say hello." His words were laden with mockery, to which Blaise nearly stepped into the lord's space.

The woman smiled again, matching the man's smirk. "Oh, I believe you've said far more than hello. You've no business here, obviously, so you're welcome to leave anytime. And besides, you've a daughter at her aunt's, and I heard you were going to pick her up today? I'm sure little Minette will be anxious to see you again."

His smirk tightened into a painfully fake grin, and he nodded politely. "Of course, Madame Zabini. Of course."

He turned sharply to the door, exiting in a huff, and Lady Zabini's grin grew at his backward glance. She laced her arm through her son's, and glided across the room towards the small group. "Draco, wonderful to see you. And you, Pansy." Her twin chocolate eyes turned to Minette. "And you… Now, what have you been up to, Little Minette?"

…

_I once was a prisoner_

_I was held captive by metal._

_I was surrounded by like,_

_And kept by the cruel._

_My world was crumbled,_

_My soul was crushed._

_My heart was shattered,_

_And my flesh was marred._

_True, I once was a prisoner._

_But now I am free._

_I once was a captive,_

_I am held by nothing._

_Not metal,_

_Not bone,_

_Not flesh._

The Thirteenth prisoner's song, supposedly sung and created by Hedera Numencery in the wartimes around 1780. Titled many years later as "Chains of Life".


End file.
